


If There's No One Beside You

by Godtiss



Series: Lessons to Learn [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Wingfic, bamf!Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godtiss/pseuds/Godtiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if it means his own end – means not seeing John again, not being able to apologize and explain – Sherlock will not let Molly Hooper die for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If There's No One Beside You

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt from [atlantisgallifrey](http://atlantisgallifrey.tumblr.com/). Title from Death Cab for Cutie's _I Will Follow You Into the Dark_

John has always assumed Sherlock doesn’t know how to fly.

He’s never asked – Sherlock would tell him if it were relevant information – but while the people around them used their wings for tasks that would have been far more difficult otherwise, Sherlock elects to keep his black-and-blue feathers curled around his back. If something is impossible without the aid of flight, the detective simply asks John.

In the end, John never does find out if his assumptions were true. They’re certainly reinforced though, when John’s own wings refuse to respond to his desperate desire to launch into the air and _catchprotectsave_ the detective before he plummets to his death from the roof of St. Bart’s. But the muscles are frozen along with the rest of his body, save for those necessary to shout the man’s name just before he hits the ground.

What John Watson doesn’t know – and what ultimately saves his life in _not knowing_ \- is that Sherlock Holmes is perfectly capable of flying, that he uses his wings at the last second to lessen the impact of his body on the pavement below. It still jolts his consciousness, requiring a delayed reboot where he makes the transition between cold concrete and cold metal in what feels like seconds.

Molly is there, hovering above him with worried eyes, her own fiery wings wrapped around her small frame. She finishes cleaning the blood from his face, helps him sit up when his head spins and he can’t brace himself on his left arm.

“You’re dead,” she tells him.

“John?”

“Is being treated upstairs for a mild concussion, but he’ll be-“

She can’t bring herself to say the word. They both know that John Watson won’t be _fine_ after this.

Something must show on Sherlock’s face because Molly leans forward and wraps her arms around his torso, mindful of his injuries after the fall. Her forehead rests on his collarbone, her ear hovering just over his heart, and her wings arc up and over them both, enveloping them in _warmthcomfortsaftey_ even when Sherlock’s entire being rejects the feelings without John’s presence.

He curls into the embrace, rests his head atop Molly’s and breathes in the scent of her hair – citrus and tea and comfort. His dark wings droop behind him, hanging off the edge of the autopsy table even while Molly’s press closer around them both.

“I’m coming with you,” she says into the quiet.

“No. I’m not putting your life at risk. I can do this on my own.”

She pulls back, just enough to be able to meet his eyes in the gloom her wings present. Her gaze is determination and fear and _fire_ and Sherlock suddenly understands where she gets her coloration from.

“I’m not coming for you, Sherlock Holmes. I’m coming for John. Because you can’t do this on your own and we both know it, but John isn’t able to help. I owe him this – to bring you home safely. _You_ owe him this.”

Sherlock appears lost, and for a moment Molly regrets her words. He’s trying to do what’s _right_ instead of what he _wants_ but _she’s_ right and that twists everything around so painfully that he can hardly think past it.

“Molly-“

“People wouldn’t question if I quit my job and moved out of London after doing an autopsy on my friend.”

Sherlock was more of a fool than Moriarty for not seeing how much she mattered earlier. How much she counted – had always counted.

“It will be dangerous,” he allows. His wings twitch, curl tight around himself.

“I know.”

“We may never be able to return to London.”

“I know.”

She moves forward again, chin on his shoulder in their embrace. And he leans into it, breathes shakily as he tells himself that he’s doing the right thing, even though he feels like he’s sacrificing one friend for another.

Even if it means his own end – means not seeing John again, not being able to apologize and explain – Sherlock will not let Molly Hooper die for him.

“I know, Sherlock.”


End file.
